


The Circle H Bar and Grille

by uschickens



Category: CWRPS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:18:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uschickens/pseuds/uschickens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no air conditioning worth speaking of, and it’s one of those summer nights so thick and heavy that everything seems to hang a moment in the air before actually happening. His leather jacket is draped on the booth beside him, and his t-shirt is tight and a little damp. It’s tight enough that it pulls across his hips then curves above his belt buckle just enough to see a strip of skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Circle H Bar and Grille

There's a bar somewhere, a hole in the wall, just dark enough, with two pool tables, four or five ratty, hardwood bench booths, and a floor that’s just the right amount of sticky to be comfortably rundown but not disgusting. Jensen’s leaning against the wall opposite the bar, behind one of the pool tables. “Leaning” may be a bit generous. He’s propping up a wall like James Dean. He’s lounging upright like it’s only a trick of gravity that keeps him vertical.

There’s no air conditioning worth speaking of, and it’s one of those summer nights so thick and heavy that everything seems to hang a moment in the air before actually happening. His leather jacket is draped on the booth beside him, and his t-shirt is tight and a little damp. It’s tight enough that it pulls across his hips then curves above his belt buckle just enough to see a strip of skin.

It’s barely enough to lay two fingers across – one, if you have big hands – but it’s this little sliver of unexpected vulnerability. He’s showing you his stomach, leaving himself exposed like that just a little, because he knows it doesn’t matter. Either he knows nothing’s going to touch him because he won’t let it, or he trusts that whoever is watching won’t go for his visible weakness. Or maybe he wants them to.

The stripe of his stomach and the white of his teeth, exposed by the curve of his grin, are the only spots of brightness on him, tucked away in the shadows cast by the light above the pool table. His jeans are dark and broken-in and look soft to the touch, the kind of softness that only comes after several days’ wear. He slides a little further down the wall, his back just barely sweaty enough that the shirt sticks in place as his body moves down, letting it gap at his lower back. His jeans ride low on his hips, and they expose the beginning of that sweet curve from back into ass. It’s hot enough in the bar that the sudden shift of air against the small of his back, just waiting for a hand, makes the hair on his arms stand up. His grin curves even more, directed at no one in particular, and he props his feet a little further apart.

Or maybe “no one” is actually Jared. Jared, in a white t-shirt, worn enough to be almost threadbare, where the shape of the cotton is gone, and it just clings to the body beneath it. Maybe the collar is torn a little bit. It’s the sort of threadbare that lets you know that if you were to touch him, to put a hand on his stomach, you would be able to feel the heat of his skin, the twitch of his muscles as he jerked in a breath. His skin is unexpectedly tan against the white of the shirt, particularly where the collar is a little droop and gaps at the hollow of his throat. If you looked closely, you could see his pulse just beneath the thin skin there.

Jared’s bent over the pool table, long arms stretched almost all the way across. “Long” is the operative word here: long arms stretched, making his triceps shadow out from beneath the short sleeves of his shirt; long fingers wrapped very precisely around the cue stick, holding it almost delicately but with pinpoint control; long legs in faded, tight jeans, so long that in order to bend properly over the table, he almost has to stick his ass in the air, the barely-there curve of it visible over the white expanse of his shoulders spread across the green felt of the table; long hair draping in his eyes, so that when he looks up to meet Jensen’s eyes, it’s almost coy.

Almost, because there’s nothing coy about the way his lips part in an almost-grin, only the slightest dimple at the corner of his mouth showing his amusement. His lips are full and pouty, surely the subject of much teasing in the past, and they’re all tease now, especially when his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, lingering just a little as he looks up and across.

Jensen shifts slightly on the wall.

Jared’s left hand is steady on the cue stick, but his right hand slides quickly up and down, just once, calluses rasping against the shaft of the cue, before he tightens his grip. He slams the stick into the cue ball, never breaking eye contact. He loses the half-grin momentarily, mouth going slack and soft, as if waiting for fingers to press on his lips, offering no resistance if they were to stroke inside. The crack of the balls is loud but seems muffled in the darkness of the bar, and two balls, ten and thirteen, clunk softly into pockets.

Jared doesn’t look down at the table but stands up, unfurling himself to his full height. He props the butt end of the cue stick on the floor and wraps both hands around the top, absurdly small between his fingers. His hips slide to one side as he shifts his weight. The tiny dimple is back.

There’s a spot in Jensen’s lower lip that seems to dip in, like it was made for a beer to rest against. Like there’s no more natural position for his mouth than to be stopped mid-drink, the mouth of the bottle resting against his lip, his mouth smiling around it. That his mouth was made to laugh and drink. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Jensen has a beer bottle in his hand, and he kills it. He throws his head back, bottle pointed straight up with only two fingers curled around the neck, the motion of his throat even more apparent as he swallows. His lips are wet when he takes the bottle away, and he licks them. His mouth would taste like beer right now, yeasty and bitter. He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand, then licks his lips again. Now his lips would taste of salt from his skin, damp and warm with the press of the night air.

Jensen heaves himself off the wall and walks to Jared. He grabs Jared’s wrist and unwraps his hand from around the cue. Jensen’s fingers are a little cold and a little damp from being wrapped around a beer bottle, and they are even colder against the hot, thin skin of Jared’s wrist. It is Jared’s turn to buy the round.

There is moment where they stand like that, not frozen – it is too hot for anything to be frozen, even a moment – but heavy and still, where everything hangs in the air, sticky with possibility and humidity. It’s a moment where what happens next splinters and could happen a hundred different ways, and for that instant, every future is equally possible. Jared’s pulse is fast and shallow beneath Jensen’s fingers, and Jensen’s lips part. Jared uses his free hand to fish out his wallet and press a handful of bills into Jensen’s hand, making him release Jared’s wrist to take the money. The ones and fives are warm from where Jared’s wallet pressed against his body in his rear pocket.

Jensen buys two more beers.

When he gets back to the table, Jared is gone. It’s a small bar, with only the half-dozen or so booths crowding what little space is not occupied by bar and pool tables. Then there’s the back hallway, with the bathrooms and the broken pay phone and the cigarette machine and the doors to the kitchen of the restaurant next door.

The light from the cigarette machine barely reaches to the doors of the bathroom, much less all the way to the back corner of the hallway, and if you didn’t know what you were looking for, it would be easy to miss seeing Jared altogether. He is curled around himself in the corner, an impressive feat for such a tall man. Boy? Man. His back is to the cigarette machine, and to Jensen, and only the motion of his shoulder is visible in the darkness. The moment Jensen spots him is unmistakable – the sight makes him grin, all teeth, amusement ghosting over something else entirely.

Jensen sets the two beer bottles on top of the broken phone, far enough back that they won’t easily fall off if the phone is jostled. He starts to wipe his hands off on his jeans, but he stops mid-gesture. He holds his hands up awkwardly to keep the moisture from dripping off and sidles up to Jared. Jared’s head is bent forward as his entire body curls into itself, and his left shoulder is pressed against the slightly grimy wall. The ratty collar of his t shirt falls low, exposing the top knob of his spine and the long curve of his neck. Jensen presses his wet, cold fingers to Jared’s neck.

Jared’s entire body stiffens, and he turns to face the wall even as he snakes his head around to glare. He stops mid-word when he sees Jensen, profanity still heavy on his lips. Jensen stands behind him and well inside his personal space, hands loose at his sides again, settled well into his hips. Jensen reaches out to Jared again, to push or play or what it isn’t clear, because Jared grabs him first. Jared wraps one hand around Jensen’s upper arm, fingers tight against the black of Jensen’s t shirt, and hauls him in between Jared’s body and the wall. The grip and reach are awkward, no matter how long Jared’s arms are or how tightly he is clutching Jensen’s arm, but Jensen does not try to fight the tug at all, rolls with it, and allows himself to be manhandled.

Jared’s pants are already open, and he is hard. Jensen looks down, the heavy sort of gaze that rests like a hand, that Jared should be able to feel like a touch. It takes a long moment for Jensen to drag his eyes up to meet Jared’s, and he only raises his eyes slowly. A flush creeps up Jared’s body, following the path of Jensen’s eyes. It’s the sort of flush close to the surface of the skin, the kind you can feel even through a thin t shirt, where the flushed skin is hotter to the touch than the skin around it, particularly if it’s the thin skin over sharply defined muscles.

Jared still has Jensen’s upper arm pressed against the wall when the flush creeps up his neck, making him swallow, and turns into a blush high across his cheeks. He slides his left hand down Jensen’s arm to grab his wrist, to move his hand for him, where he hesitates. It is a mirror of that long moment in the bar.

The bar is nearly empty, and the few people who are there are locked into the game on TV, unlikely to venture into the dank, musty corridor back beyond the bathrooms. Still, the risk of being seen, getting caught is very real and very present. Darkness can hide a multitude of sins, but it can’t hide all of them.

On the other side of the wall, inches away from that dark hallway corridor, the jukebox rattles to life. The bass begins to throb against the cheap pine wall, and Bob Seger starts wailing about being young and foolish. Any noise either of the men pressed in the corner might be making would be drowned out. The only way you could hear anyone in that hallway would be if you were standing uncomfortably close together, the heat of your bodies traveling further than any sound you could make, unless your lips were pressing against their ear, or if their face were pressed to your throat, catching the sound before it even left your body.

Jared and Jensen stand that close. Jared’s head is bent down towards Jensen, close enough that Jensen can press his mouth to Jared’s ear. Jensen says something audible only to Jared, and Jared’s left hand clenches on the wall, where it is propped next to Jensen’s head and supporting most of Jared’s weight. His fingers scrabble at the wood as Jensen continues to move nothing but his lips. Jensen is standing like he was in the bar, shoulders shoved back into the wall, hips canted away from the wall (into Jared), shirt gaping at the small of his back. His head lolls backwards as he watches Jared through half-lidded eyes, exposing his throat.

Jared’s mouth opens, but his lips do not form words. He leans forward, and it is unclear if he is trying to press his lips to Jensen’s lips or neck or if even Jared knows what he is trying. It doesn’t matter, because Jensen stops him with a hand in his hair. He tugs Jared’s head backwards, making the cords in Jared’s neck pop out. Jensen presses his lips to the sharp line of Jared’s jaw in something that is only loosely related to a kiss. Jared’s stubble is fine and soft, even this late at night, but it still makes gooseflesh rise on his arms when Jensen runs his lips against the grain of the hair, up to the spot where neck, jaw, and ear meet, where the skin is thinnest and softest, where the difference between inside and outside is almost negligible. Where Jensen bites, sharp teeth inside soft lips, pressed against softer skin.

Jensen says one more word against the curve of Jared’s ear before leaning back again, eyes as sharp and bright as his teeth. Jared quivers, vibration running through him like a plucked bowstring, making the fingers on his left hand still propping him up go white, but he nods slightly, as much as Jensen’s hand still buried in his hair will let him. Jensen does not smile as Jared reaches for himself, pants still open, cock still hard, but he is no longer staring into Jared’s eyes.

Jared is not wearing underwear. His jeans are unbuttoned, his cock curving up from his open fly. His hand is big enough, his fingers long enough, that he can almost wrap just his fingers around the shaft of his cock, letting the line of calluses across the top of his palm – formed by farm work, maintained even now with his haphazard weapons training – rub against the vein that twists up the underside. His pulse is visible, and it must press against his fingers with every rapid beat of his heart. He moves his hand, slowly at first, with most of the movement in his wrist, blush returning full force.

Jensen begins to talk, mouth moving in noiseless words underneath the howling of the guitars – the jukebox has flipped over to Aerosmith – and every word he says is visible in the jerk and tremble of Jared’s body. A burst of words, full of consonants and fricatives that Jensen wraps his mouth around, makes Jared shuffle his feet further apart and lean closer into Jensen. Something long and slow, with Jensen’s tongue lazy around the vowels, makes Jared open his mouth on wordless sounds again and speed up his hand, until Jensen snaps out something short and sharp.

Jensen rucks up his t shirt, exposing more than just a sliver of skin. With his entire stomach bare, he is showing more skin, inch for inch, than Jared. The shirt is as soft and worn as Jared’s, the black a sharp contrast to Jensen’s paler skin. Still holding up his shirt, Jensen lets his other hand drop from Jared’s hair and wraps it around Jared’s hip. His first two fingers dip beneath the waistband of Jared’s jeans and press into warm skin, the bit of skin where the leanness of Jared’s torso starts to melt into the richer curve of flesh of his ass. He yanks forward on Jared’s waist, bringing their hips even closer and making the head of Jared’s cock drag across the tight, clenched muscles of Jensen’s stomach.

They both stutter into a sharp moment of stillness at this, mouths framing the same meaningless vowels. Jensen tugs on Jared’s ass again, urging him yet closer still, and Jared bends his head down to press against Jensen’s forehead. He works his hand faster now, with an unconsciously elegant flip of his wrist around the head of his cock every third stroke or so. It is easy to see when his calluses catch and drag, ever so slightly, because it makes his hips jerk towards Jensen, which makes his cock skate across Jensen’s stomach again.

Jensen starts talking again, but his mouth is softer this time, words falling out of lips heavy with arousal, in direct counterpoint to the restless shift of his hips. His fingers clutch and release the hem of his shirt, his forearm brushing against his nipple showing tight and hard against his shirt, but he doesn’t let his shirt fall. Nor does he touch Jared, other than those fingers wrapped around his hip, fingers that clutch hard enough to leave a mark, fingers that stroke softly enough to make Jared shiver even more.

Soon they are pressed together down the full length of their bodies, Jared’s legs twined inside and around Jensen’s, barely enough space for Jared’s hand between the buck and roll of their hips together. Jensen lets go of his shirt, Jared’s cock flush against his stomach as they move together, and places a damp, sweaty hand on the side of Jared’s face. The flush is back on Jared’s cheeks, high and furious, and Jensen’s thumb traces the bright slash of red. Jared’s face twists, hard, mouth open and panting into Jensen’s. Jensen speaks, one final time, mouth brushing directly against Jared’s lips with the movement of each word before taking Jared’s mouth in a kiss.

Jared comes.

Jensen moves his mouth over and in Jared’s in a kiss, while Jared, after a long moment, simply breathes into Jensen. The inside of Jared’s lips are dry, from where he has been sucking in breath after breath, and Jensen touches his tongue to the slightly puckered skin there before closing the space between their lips again. They kiss for a long moment, until Jared slides a thigh between Jensen’s and presses up. Jensen lets his head fall back, and he breathes harshly, chest heaving. His eyes start to close, until Jared reaches out with big, careful fingers to touch the fragile skin of Jensen’s eyelids.

Jensen opens his eyes in time to watch Jared wrap both hands around his waist and shove Jensen’s shirt even further up. In time to watch Jared drop to his knees. In time to watch Jared press his lips to the sticky, warm mess on Jensen’s stomach. In time to watch Jared run a hand across the dip of muscle in Jensen’s hip, to watch his fingers press up against Jensen’s fly, to see him feel the heat and hardness beneath. To watch his mouth slide lower on Jensen’s stomach, across that tiny strip of vulnerable skin a t shirt never seemed to want to cover. He doesn’t see Jared unbutton the top button of his jeans and yank him bare of clothes, doesn’t see him bury his face against Jensen’s crotch, doesn’t see him wrap him his lips around the head of Jensen’s cock even as Jensen is coming. At that moment, Jensen’s head is thrown back with his eyes screwed shut again, throat clutching around shapeless words.

Their beers are waiting for them on the broken pay phone. They’re not quite warm yet.


End file.
